


Shaman's Walk

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 10:58:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/797904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair needs come closure before he goes on with his life as a cop.  He needs to figure out the Shaman thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shaman's Walk

## Shaman's Walk

#### by Tazy

  
  
I read a biography of Richard Burton. This is what happened.  
  
This story is a sequel to: 

* * *

There was a parking spot in front of the house, but he didn't pull in. Sandburg drove around the block, fingers tapping the wheel, thinking, yes? Or no. And since the spot was still there when he came around to it again, he pulled in and shut off the engine. Quiet. He looked up and down the street, checking it out. No signs of trouble, nothing to set off any warning bells in the back of his skull. Not that he was expecting anything, but by now he'd picked up some of Ellison's habits. Cop habits. 

He turned his attention to the house. It was a small brick place set close to the street, with a patch of green lawn in front and a wooden porch that was losing white paint and had been for several years. The property was surrounded by a chain link fence in the front, and a redwood fence in the back. Prosperous once, now just maintained and barely respectable. The sort of place your Aunt Etta lived in alone with three cats. 

He got out of the car, stretched, and walked up to the fence, taking a moment to waggle open the cobbled together hook on the chain link gate. He swung the gate wide, walked through, and as he fastened it again behind him he almost gave in to the impulse to go. Just go. Back home. Back to the street. Get in his car and drive. 

But instead he walked up the concrete sidewalk, up the three slanted wooden steps and he opened the porch door, crossing the two steps to the house door quickly. He knocked. 

Nothing happened. He didn't hear any sounds from inside the house. Be nice to be a sentinel in cases like this. You'd know for sure if you were being snubbed instead of just suspecting, wouldn't be wondering if the lady inside were ignoring you, just waiting for you to go away. 

Talk about your paranoid moments. He stood a little taller and knocked again, harder. 

The door knob rattled and the door opened. 

"Yeah?" 

Wrong house? This was the shaman? Sandburg blinked. Middle aged, female, short, wearing worn jeans and a flannel shirt. Well, hey. Flannel. She did not say hello or invite him inside. 

"Mrs. Fine? Your name was suggested to me by a friend," practically a stranger actually, who worked at the Heart Natural Foods Emporium, but why mention that? "I asked for the name of a shaman. A genuine one." 

The woman studied him, almost casually it seemed. "A shaman? What do you need one of those for?" she asked. 

"I need some guidance. Advice. Maybe some lessons." 

She had not stopped looking at him. It was hard to tell what was going on behind her small dark eyes, and her expression gave away nothing. So he was almost surprised when she opened the door all the way and gestured him to come in. The house was dark and a little too warm. His eyes adapted to the gloom inside even as his nose told him he'd been right about the cats. 

"Guidance. Advice. Lessons." She repeated his words slowly, Then she said, "Huh." 

And what did that mean? He found himself studying her face, trying to see the power inside. He knew all about not judging by the packaging, knew that what he was looking for could come from a shaman, a wise woman, pagan priestess, modern witch or ancient witch-doctor. Or, hell, it could come from a psychologist. There was more than one path to what he sought. There were also a lot of charlatans out there, a lot of white Indians and wannabe types who talked a good talk, even played a good game. Sometimes it took awhile to sort it out. 

Well, one thing about this lady. She didn't have any pretentious props. No alter in the corner or holy paintings on the walls. She just...was. 

And she didn't feel wrong or bad or stupid when he tried to sense who she was, what she was. Some people, you knew right away. Bad news. 

"You can tell me in here. You want tea?" she asked as she turned and headed out of the room. He followed her to a small cramped kitchen at the back of the house. 

"Tea? Thanks." 

She waved him towards one of the two chairs at the wooden table. Here, there were one or two signs that she might be more than your average middle aged lady at the edge of suburbia. He knew the names of most of the herbs in the jars by the window and over on the dark counter. Sage and yellowfoot and horsetail fern. 

She put a heavy white mug on the table in front of him, then sat down in the other chair and took a drink from her blue cup. "Tell me," she said. 

He took a cautious sip from his cup. It was too hot and he wasted another minute blowing on it. Thinking what to say. It was plain tea, the kind you get at the grocery store, and it had no sugar in it. "Some time ago.... A Chopec shaman came to Cascade. He died here. He died in my...in my friend's house. Before he died he said that he was...was passing the way of the shaman to me. Everything was chaotic. Later, it was even worse. I got busy and I never...I think I should have looked into what it meant. What it meant to me, but things, you know, happened. I was working with the police, and it was always something. Kidnappings, shootouts, terrorists, not to mention I was teaching and trying to go to school. Busy. And maybe I didn't want to look to closely at the...the gift Incacha gave to me. The legacy? Because I was pretty sure I didn't quite have what it took to be a shaman." 

"Huh," she said, and took another drink of her tea. He lifted his cup to his lips and followed her example. She waited. Finally he spoke again. 

"My life...is going to change. Next week I go to...to the police academy, to learn to be a cop. Big change for me. I hope I'm up to it. I figure the best thing I can do for myself is go into it with a clear head. Know what I am, where I'm going. Sort it all out, you know? So I thought about it. Trying to decide what goes on with me, what I leave behind." 

The lady drank more of her tea. 

Sandburg sighed. "Some of it was easy to leave, some of it breaks my heart to step away from. One thing I didn't know about was what Incacha said. About the way of the shaman. I'm not a shaman. I know a lot about it, what it means from the outsider's point of view. Studied. But I don't know that I have it in me. The way it should be if that's what I actually am. I want to know...to find out if I do have it in me to be a shaman. And if I do, then I want to find out how to do it. Be it." 

"Huh." The sound was thoughtful, almost interested. For the first time there was a flash of expression on her face. Curiosity? 

"I need to be guided. I need help finding the place to start." 

"I see." But she didn't say anything else. She just went back to drinking her tea, and when the cup was empty she went and got an old-fashioned white tea pot from the counter and filled her cup up again. She topped his off without asking him if he wanted it. She drank most of that cup of tea before she spoke. At last she said, "What is your name?" 

"Blair Sandburg." 

"I am Jean Fine." 

He knew that, but he wasn't sure what to say, so he just nodded. Trading names was important. It could be a sign of trust. Or just an acknowledgment of status or existence. Or it could be.... 

"You, Blair Sandburg. Tell me. Are you ready now?" 

"Now?' Puzzled, he looked up at her clock on the wall. 

"If you are ready now, we will start now. If you are not ready, go, and come back when you have some time. It's not like meeting with your shrink, you know. One hour now and come back next week for some more. This is a different thing all together and sometimes it takes a long time to find what is in a heart." She lifted her mug, staring at him over the rim. 

"I...well, I have a week, I guess. But, I'd have to call home. Make sure there's no problem, so nobody will worry." 

"Call, then. You can leave my number for an emergency contact, but you do not want anyone coming here. Interrupting." 

Too much time hanging around the cop shop. A bit of suspicion niggled at him, telling him that putting himself totally in the hands of a stranger was stupid. He pulled out his phone and punched the numbers quickly, before he could talk himself out of this. 

"Ellison." 

"Hey. Jim, look, I have a chance to...well, get some help so I can get my head on straight. I'm going to stay with a friend for a few days. Mrs. Jean Fine. Just didn't want you to panic or anything." 

"Everything all right?" Ellison asked sharply. 

"It's fine. Look, get a pen, I'll give you an emergency number." Mrs. Fine held out a scrap of paper on which she had just written a phone number. He reeled the numbers off slowly, enunciating carefully. 

"It was your turn to cook dinner," Ellison complained. Only not too much, and Sandburg just knew that he was going to happily make a Wonderburger run. 

"Sorry about that." 

"You at this number?" Ellison asked. 

"Yeah. I think." 

"You better be. Hang up. I'll call." 

"Okay." 

He put his phone away. A few seconds later, the phone on the wall rang. 

"It's for you," Jean said, without looking up. She seemed slightly amused for a second, but then her face fell back into neutral lines. 

Sandburg answered it. "Me," he said. He knew that Jim would check the number the minute he hung up, and that he would know the street address and how to get there before another five minutes had passed. 

"Yeah," Ellison said.. "I see that. How long did you say this was going to take?" 

"A couple of hours? A few days. I really don't know." 

"Oh. Look, Sandburg, don't do anything stupid." 

"Take your own advice. I'll see you." 

"Later," Ellison agreed, and closed the connection abruptly. 

It sounded lonely there on the end of the empty line. He turned away from the phone. "What now?" 

"Come on." She led the way from the kitchen to a small bedroom. At the door she said, "Take everything off. Clothes, those," she pointed to the two earrings, "even the hair tie. Then go across the hall and take a shower. Pee first, eliminate if you have to. Wash really well. Use soap the first time, the second time use the stuff in the green bottle. Everywhere, even your hair. Then rub under the water until you're completely rinsed clean. Yell when you're done." She closed the door. 

Ooookay. He stripped off his clothes, looking around the tiny bedroom while he did it. It was very plain, about the size of his own, only the traditional furniture made it look crowded. He went and showered as directed. The stuff in the green bottle was some sort of herb mixture, not soap. It made his nose wrinkle. He dried off with the towel he found folded on top of the hamper. 

It was strange to be nude in someone else's house. Drafty. Naked. 

There was a knock on the door, and his hostess walked in. She didn't take any notice of his nudity. "Rub this all over your body," she said, shoving another bottle his direction. "Then rub with this," she gave him a rag that was plainly half of an old tea towel, although it looked clean enough, "until your skin tingles. Then put on another layer of oil but don't rub it off." She turned and walked out. 

So he rubbed oil all over his body, and it took longer than he thought it would, but actually felt pretty good. He rubbed it off with the rag, then started to oil himself again. His hair became a greasy mess in the process, turning into long dark strands with most of the curl pulled out of them, that clung to the skin of his back and shoulders. 

Jean Fine came in again, not even bothering with a knock of warning this time. "Good," she said. "Here is what you are to do. You need to meditate for several hours. See what is in yourself." She did not ask if he knew how to meditate. "Until nightfall. During this time I want you to eat nothing, drink nothing. At nightfall, stand up. Stretch, and pee if you need to. Not against the fence. The neighbors have enough to complain about. I will come out then and make a fire. You will look into the heart of the fire until it dies down. Then I will come and kindle a bigger fire. You will dance. Around the fire, dance, and chant if you wish. But dance. I will feed the fire sometimes, but I will not talk to you, not distract you from the path. You may not even see me. You will dance until someone else comes to dance with you. Dance as long as they dance, but when they stop, you will stop. After that.... You will know what to do. Perhaps." She was leading him out of the room as she spoke, and with her last word, she opened the back door and thrust him outside. 

All traditional. Most of it from the Native American methodologies and style. Obviously adapted to the current environment. 

Which was a suburban back yard. 

A long, narrow back yard, surrounded by a weathered fence. There were two scraggly small trees towards the center and a row of bushes against the back fence. Ragged flowerbeds, currently sans blooms, lined the fence down both sides. The grass grew only up near the house, giving up the pretense of being a lawn just before it reached the trees. A cracked cement sidewalk extended down through the middle of the yard, ending at the fence, where a crumbling brick incinerator from the 50's or 60's stood, converted into an awkward planter by the addition of a cement pot on top. 

Having surveyed the yard, Sandburg looked up. Huh. Well, if it wasn't raining, it wasn't clear or sunny, either. And here he was, nude. One could hope the neighbors weren't in the habit of spying over the fence. 

What the hell was he thinking? 

The other side of that was, why the hell was he here? 

Because you need help, he reminded himself. 

Help with what? That was the question. Sometimes he wondered if he was happy with the solution Simon and Jim had come up with. It had made almost everyone happy - but he wondered if it was the thing that would make him happy. Because it didn't make him happy when he thought about it for very long. It made his stomach hurt. 

Yet when he analyzed it, took it apart, he couldn't find the element that caused him distress. Working with Jim? Good. With the crew in Major Crimes, with Simon Banks for a boss? All good. It looked like his mom could stand it, so he was okay on the home front. Leaving academia had even been a relief. He'd thought out his opinion on guns and had come to terms with using them. Even gone with Jim to the range and shot a few rounds. He'd turned out to be pretty good with a handgun. Who knew? 

He'd even gone through a thousand scenarios in his mind-and didn't that account for a few sleepless nights?-and knew exactly what he would say if he was ever on the stand and a lawyer questioned his honesty, his integrity. Had all the phrases ready, had practiced against every tactic he could imagine. He wasn't going to get blind-sided, wasn't going to lose a case because of his past. If his past lost a case, that case was in trouble in the first place. He had come to terms with it. 

Except...here he was. In somebody's backyard. Holding the same debate with himself. Only this time he was greasy, naked and a little chilled. The clouds were a little lower and greyer than they had been when he started this discussion with himself. 

Why was he here? 

He decided if he was going to think about it, he could think about it sitting down. He walked down the yard to the trees, and sat down under the bigger one, leaning back against the rough bark and closing his eyes. He tried to channel his sentinel, to hear what there was to hear, smell what there was to smell. 

Well, the house on the left kept dogs and didn't clean up after them quite often enough. The couple two doors down on the same side were home and fighting. Nothing on the other side. Except traffic sounds. 

When he felt he knew his area he began to work on his breathing, sitting up now, relaxed, clearing his head. He hadn't had much time for this lately and was reminded again that no matter how busy he got, he should not get too busy for this. For Jim's sake as well as his own. 

But it was hard, for some reason. Sometimes it came smoothly and sometimes it did not, and this was definitely a not. He had learned how to deal with it, to ease into it when the circumstances threw roadblocks into the path to inner peace. 

The great wheel turned, the sky became more grey, and then almost black. It was cold and nearly dark when he finally stood up. Peed against a bush on the side where the neighbors kept dogs, his icy fingers on his cold penis. Turned to see the bright small fire being kindled on a bare patch of dirt on the far side of the trees. The fire drew him. Too small for much warmth, but it was warming nonetheless. 

He stared into the fire. A wolf yipped. Or maybe it was the dog next door. Someone was cooking onions. It faded away. So did the fire. He was aware of a figure approaching, of the soft thumping sounds of wood being piled onto the fire. 

The fire flared up, larger now. He stood. 

The dance was more of a shuffle at first. He went once around the fire, twice, feeling awkward and a little stupid. But the shaman began drumming and the beats took the rhythm into his feet. He found the steps, the way to move his body, his legs, his arms. It owed as much to the clubs as it owed to any other tradition. He wondered briefly what it looked like, and again hoped the neighbors were not peeping toms. Didn't want to find himself explaining it to Simon. Or to any of the boys in blue. Somehow he thought that being arrested for indecent exposure would kill his chance of a police career pretty dead. 

He warmed up, at least. 

Danced. 

Danced. 

Danced until the visions started. Wolf danced with him, for a time. Panther mirrored their steps, out beyond the line of the fire. Ghostly eyes and the silky flash of black pelt. Ayah. Was gone. 

Others came to dance with him, ghosts walking in from long ago and far away to turn with him and stamp and whirl. Students he had sat with in class after class, nameless now, strangely stripped of more than their identity. Nude and formless, some wearing masks. 

Teachers, too, and authors, who had no face but still bore on their body the force of their words. Incacha stepped before him and led him through new steps, showing him by example but never uttering a word or making eye contact. Dancing before him but never with him. Dancing with his eyes shut and wearing red paint that was way too much the color of blood. 

Danced. Until he was tired, until he was beyond tired, until only the beat of the drum kept him upright even though his legs trembled and his steps staggered. Until he was dancing alone, again, so alone. 

But.... 

Not alone. 

Something danced in the shadows. Just outside the edge of his vision, beyond peripheral, because he never quite caught a glimpse of it, but he knew, eventually, that it was there. Shadow, it matched his moves, his steps, even some of his missteps. It danced. It did not follow, and if he looked ahead, he did not see it. 

He danced until his head was pounding, he searched but found nothing, until in his frustration, he stopped and shouted at it. 

Commanded. 

Show yourself! 

He waited. Nothing. But now it seemed as if there was a dark jungle around him, that he was in a small clearing in a primeval forest. The fire leaped high, but revealed nothing. Yellow and grey shadows dappled the dirt and the twisted tree trunks. The shadows flickered with the flames. 

Show yourself! He shouted it a second time. In the distance a nightbird screeched. 

Silent. He heard the beating of his heart, heard the drum. He turned to begin the dance again, but hesitated, faced the jungle and shouted a third time. Let me see! 

Out of the jungle slid a giant black snake. Citrine eyes glittering with crystal fires, it eased left and then right with heavy grace, approaching so smoothly that it was in his face before he knew it. He didn't let the fear in his heart show on his face. He pushed the thick body away hard. 

"Who you are." 

He said it out loud. He meant to say `who are you?' but it came out a statement instead of a question. An order instead of a request. 

The snake quivered and the dark mouth opened. The black tongue tasted the air, the head lifted higher. The snake transformed. 

Into a man. A hearty, laughing man in the prime of his life. In his heavily tanned face his eyes glittered, and the firelight traced a heavy scar along one cheek. A mustache arched above his lip, a turban of twisted, dirty white was wrapped around his head. He was dressed in tattered robes and his hands and dusty feet were nicked and cracked. The man would have looked like an utter vagabond if not for his wondrous cloak. It was made of some magical silk upon which the naked shapes of women bent and swayed. Women without number, all sensuously winding against each other, against the sleeves, the hem, the collar. Two dimensional and yet extraordinarily real. Deep brown skin against ivory, warm pink against deep ebony. Long braids and tails of hair slipped across a hip, a shoulder, to fall across a face. For all their twisting and stretching, their faces were almost never in sight-a glimpse of dark eyes here, a red mouth there. Gone in an instant, replaced with the curve of a buttock, a berry-tipped nipple, an arching back or a lifting thigh. 

Larger than life, laughing, the man reached out as the drums began again, louder, and he bent into the dance, circling the fire. His cloak whipped around him, swirled in the air with each lunge and twist. Sometimes the cloak floated out towards the flames and the ghostly women were picked out in glowing gold from the fire behind them. 

Blair wanted to throw himself into the dance, wanted to follow this big man who had new steps, intricate leaps and twists which caused the dust to rise up as high as his knees. But he just stood there as the dancer circled the fire and his own still figure, and finally the other dancer slowed and stopped. His chest heaved in and out and the sheen of perspiration gleamed on his swarthy cheeks. 

"Come on, boy! Dance!" the man ordered in a hearty voice. When Sandburg did not answer he reached out and cuffed Sandburg's shoulder with his hard hand, causing the slighter man to stumble a bit and go to one knee. He struggled up under the glittering eagle eye, rubbing his shoulder absently. 

"We're not done yet. Don't stop! Much to do. Get moving!" The man accompanied the order with a grand gesture that sent the tail of his cloak fluttering out behind him. 

Sandburg stood, rooted to the spot, his mind sluggishly trying to drag out some thoughts. It was a triumph when he finally came up with a name. The words left his lips quietly at first, getting louder so that he practically shouted it at the end. "Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton!" He took a deep breath, and went on more loudly, "The explorer, not the actor. Why are you here?" 

"Don't you know?" the man seemed amused. He looked up at the sky, then over at Sandburg. "Didn't you ever know?" 

"I never knew anything," Sandburg said firmly, finding it was quite true. Disconcerted to find it true. There was always so much he did not know, and his thirst to know had grown ever larger year by year. Yet here he stood, awash in questions, no more near to having his answers than he had ever been. 

"My son," the older man said fondly. Since there was no way this could be true physically, Blair had to assume the spirit was talking metaphysically. He shook his head. The other insisted. 

"Yes. My son! I sired more children than history counted, and more than I ever knew! And of them all, only one line bred true. Only those children of sweet Adastra had my wanderlust, my heart, my intelligence, my desire to see and learn and know. Only that line was worthy to bear my successor. Bastards of bastards, not a legitimate marriage in all the generations between me and you. Yet, you! You, young Blair, the one I chose. You were hardly of age when you opened my book and gave me the pathway into your heart. I have been with you ever since!" 

"No," Blair whispered, although inside his heart he wondered if it were true. Could he really be the descendant of Sir Richard Burton? 

"Oh, aye! I gave you all that I was, lad, and you took to it well enough. You never had my true abilities, never reached the heights I did. Your handful of languages to my dozens, your travels and expeditions against my life of world travel? You've never properly applied yourself, young man! You could have been as I! Yet still and all, I count you my true heir. And there is still time! And in one area you excel, at least. Your record between the sheets comes nigh my own, and by the time you reach your grave you'll have a number to challenge me with!" The shade laughed, his eyes glittering with his pleasure. "My true child!" 

Sandburg shook his head, then used his forearm to scrape the clinging strands of his hair away from his hot face. "No," he whispered. 

"I'm glad you called me here for guidance," Burton boomed. "You are on the edge of a great mistake. Allah knows I've made my share of those, and know the smell of one! Do not turn your back on your birthright. You're too young to be tied to one place, one person. A policeman! Is that all the higher you aspire? Is that the job for you?" 

"My sentinel," Blair whispered, protesting. 

"You tie yourself here, for him? Nonsense. Ask him to come with you, and if he values you enough, he will follow. You can have the world. It waits you! The world and all the delights it holds," he added, and threw up his arms, which made the cloak swirl around him and the ladies within the cloth writhed and bent. The fire flared high and the sound of the drum, far off, thrummed with the beat of his blood in his veins. 

It should have made his blood run faster. The idea of travel, with Jim. Of going on and seeing yet new places, discovering more knowledge, delving into more mysteries. 

Leaving his disgrace behind. 

Only it didn't. 

"No," he said again. 

"No? Then leave the sentinel, Blair! I wished I'd never written the damned monograph. It's distracted you, side-tracked you. Turned you from the true path of exploration, discovery. There is still fame to be had, son, still frontiers, even in this bizarre and over-civilized world you inhabit." 

Turn from Jim? 

"I'm not your son!" He screamed it into the dark forest, into the pressing black night. "I can't be your heir! Find someone else." 

"You are what you are! You can't deny it! Do not say no to me!" It was a demand, but a plea, too. 

Blair's heart ached. "No," he whispered. 

"No? " 

The glowering figure faced him across the fire, arms crossed, stubborn chin out and wild gypsy eyes glittering from the fire. "Ha. You can not drive me out. You can't endure without me. I own well more than half your soul," the brigand claimed. "You gave it to me." 

"I take it back," Sandburg spat out in anger. Being told no had always had the effect of strengthening his resolve. "No," he said. "Get out. Get out of me. Out of my life." 

"My foolish child. Think again," The tone was low, rough, coaxing. "Everything you value, everything you are, you are pushing away! Stupidity is not easily undone, I tell you. It is your heritage you wish to leave behind!" 

"Then I'll leave it behind." Sandburg was adamant. "I made my decision." 

"You had it made for you! By your superior, your friend and your guilt!" Burton sat suddenly, with an oriental grace and a swirl of his clock, his body folding down as his legs crossed. The fire was between them. His gesture invited Blair to sit as well, but the young man remained standing. "You must think clearly. Now, it might seem as if this course you have selected is the best for you. But later, you will regret it." 

"I won't regret it." He felt that inside, knew the truth of it. 

"Do not lie to yourself - or to me. You regret all of it, all you have lost. And I tell you, all is not lost. You can regain most of what you have let go." 

"I think you are lying to me. What's gone is gone. I don't want it back." Blair said it firmly, believing it. 

"Gone, is it? Then lose no more. Hold fast to what you have. It has value of which you are not yet aware. It holds the keys to your future!" 

"No. No!" It was seductive, he realized, because it was part of a truth. "I am glad I had it. Glad I learned. Glad I could use the knowledge I got from you. But I can't go back. I don't want to." Blair moved a step away, then another. He was moving towards the dark green forest, away from the fire, and he did not want to leave that warmth, that connection. It felt wrong to step away. Then.... No. He was not going to be the one to go. The ghost, or whatever it was, had to be the one to go. So he stood still and said. "Three times." He took a deep breath and said, "I say it now, I say it three times. Be gone from me. Be gone. Be gone!" 

If he thought the vision would at once be banished, he was disappointed, but the other did stand up again The fire flared upwards with the movement, obscuring the figure in white flame before dying back down. The wraith was glowering at him, his brows fierce and his eyes like daggers. "You can't banish me. I made your blood. I shall return. This time next year I shall stand before you and ask again." 

"Don't waste your time," Blair answered back. "Or mine." 

"Oh, was that what your dreams were? A waste?" Those eyes were like coals now, banked and deep with color. "Well, walk away, then. You'll return." Burton had a fierce grin on his face, and he whipped off his cloak. It swirled in the night air, and nothing was more beautiful than the silken cloth and the sweet female curves that flashed by his eyes. Blair blinked. The cloak had left Burton's hands in a graceful arc and it fell over Blair's shoulders, surprisingly heavy and warm. Was it the body warmth of Sir Francis or did the women have their own warmth they shared? 

No. 

A deep instinct rose from his chest, a knowledge that he could not explain, and he reached up and yanked the cloth from his shoulders, hurling it away from him. He only wanted it away, but it swung up and then fell down into the flames of the fire. The women screamed, or laughed, it was hard to tell, and one by one, the flames burned them free from the silken threads and they rose up, to the tips of the flames, where they were transformed into smoke and diffused into the air, still female in form, naked and beautiful, carried into the sky where they were lost in the dark of the night. 

"You idiot! You fool!" Burton sprang towards him, sword in hand, and he beat Blair with it, flat side presented so that he rained blows on the naked body but made no cuts until, with the last slam against him the blade turned just a fraction and cut him above the heart. The drops of red blood fell on the blade. Burton cursed in one of the dozens of tongues he knew and drew the blade back, wiping it on his ragged trousers before sliding it into his sheath. 

"If a man puts aside his strengths and his comforts, what is left?" Burton asked the flames. He certainly was not deigning to address Blair. He turned his back on Blair, on the fire, and strode off into the dark forest. He was gone without a trace. 

And the forest was gone and the night was gone. The grey bands of light at the edge of the east were the first signs of dawn. Blair blinked and looked around. The fire was still burning well, as if it had been fed lately, but no one was there. He was standing, staring into the eastern sky, as the darkness became lighter and lighter. He sighed, and turned around to find Meg Fine standing at the door of her house. Her arms were crossed and she was watching him. Guarding? 

He spoke. "I want a pair of scissors." 

She did not reply, but turned and went into the house. A moment later she was handing him a pair of kitchen shears. He took them and turned back to the fire. As the dawn came up the first hank hit the fire. The stench of burning hair whirled around him, up his nose, biting at his eyes, which watered and sent tears snaking down through the dirt on his face. He did not notice. Only sawed at his hair again and again, tossing the handfuls of greasy hair onto the flames one by one until there was nothing left to cut and his head felt curiously light. 

"Shaman?" He lifted his head. Meg was standing in her doorway again. She asked, "Shaman, are you done walking the path between this world and the other?" 

"I am finished." His words were rough in his throat, clogged, perhaps, by too much of tears and smoke. For this time, he was finished. He knew he could walk that path again, would. Must. But for now, he was done with it. 

She came forward with a bucket of water and doused the fire. "Come in, then. We will wash you with yucca root and fresh mint." 

Taking him by the hand she pulled him into the house, shoved him into shower, and with the curtain only partly closed she turned on the water and proceeded to scrub him with handfuls of green stuff. He turned like a doll in her hands, obeyed what orders she gave him. The shampoo made him sneeze. The washrag between his toes made him yelp when she hit the ticklish spots. The sting at his chest made him look down. The cut there oozed blood. 

That was real. His brain was coming on line, starting to regain the command it had over his body, his memory and his senses. She was drying him, rubbing a salve into his cut, getting a fresh towel for what was left of his hair. Then he was dressing in his own clothing, putting on the trappings of civilization as he felt the last of the dream world fall away. 

She gave him tea and sat across from him. When he looked up to meet her eyes, she said, "Would you share your vision, Shaman?" 

"I think I learned something about my heritage. I think I chose the path I want to take to the future, and put some things behind me. But I'm not sure what it all means." Especially that bit about burning up the cloak of women. He shook his head. It was ridiculous even trying to put it into words, but it would have been rude to say nothing. So what he said was a tiny slice of the truth, and yet.... 

He shook his head and drained his cup. 

She only stood up, went to the stove and gave him a bowl of hot soup. Campbell's. 

"Huh," he said and practically inhaled it. 

"No big meals today." She filled his tea cup again and added, "You might want to see your barber. You look like hell like that." 

He grinned. 

"Call your friend. You shouldn't drive right away, either." 

"I'm fine." 

"Yeah? What day is it?" 

"Huh?" 

"What day is it?" 

"Sunday." 

"Monday." She took a sip of her own tea. 

"Monday?" 

"Call your friend. You may not have to, he calls every two hours anyway. Almost time for his call." 

"Oh." He drank some more tea. No wonder he felt dehydrated. And something else. He felt strange. Hard to analyze it any further than that but....yeah. Strange. And his head felt strange. Light. 

His head was going to fall off. He hadn't known his hair kept his head on his neck. Balanced. 

The phone rang. 

"Hello? Sure, Jim, he's with me now." 

So sometime while he had been outside walking the clouds, the shaman had progressed to a first name basis with Jim. Okay. 

"I think you should come give him a ride home. You can come pick up his car later. It's safe enough for a few days. Yes, he's fine. Yes, that's the address. Just tired. No, that's not my business. Is it yours? Well, come get him." She hung up. "Persistent man, isn't he?" 

"Yeah." 

"A good friend." 

"Sometimes. And strangely, sometimes not. I'd criticize it except for the fact that I've probably failed him as many times as it's the other way around." 

"Maybe it will be different now." 

Blair nodded his head. "It's going to be different now," he said, turning her question into a statement. 

She smiled at him. "Yes," she agreed. "It will." She followed him out onto the porch. It was morning now, but very early. He looked down the road, looking for Jim even though he knew it was way too soon to see him. 

"You should come back to visit me, Shaman" she told him. 

"I'll come back. I have a lot to learn." 

"You've maybe learned all the most important stuff," she told him. "But there's always more to learn," she added, nodding. 

"Always more to learn," he agreed. "Thank you." He hoped she understood how heartfelt that was. She wasn't the sort of woman you hugged, really. So he was really surprised when she reached forward and rested her hand on his shoulder. It was only for a moment, and then she stepped back, and he carefully turned and walked down the short path to the gate in the fence. It opened easily for him. When he turned to fasten it, he saw that she had gone inside. He nodded towards the house and then walked out to his car. The sun was warm on his shoulders. He leaned on his car and waited for Jim. 

* * *

End 

Shaman's Walk by Tazy: alihotsy@gimmefic.net  
Author and story notes above.

Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


End file.
